


The Bartender

by ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade/pseuds/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade
Summary: This was a response to an Ask I received on Tumblr requesting a fic of Ignis entertaining a male suitor for the first time. Something tells me the strategist would not turn down the advances of a handsome gentleman sporting a fine pair of suspenders... ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)





	1. Scotch and Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place several years before the start of in-game events. And no, the bartender doesn't have a name. Sorry. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

He isn’t quite sure where the palace rumors about him originated from; contrary to popular belief, the strategist didn’t  _actually_  entertain a plethora of paramours all at once. It was hard enough keeping tabs on the three men who were entrusted to his care, and juggling several partners without the others’ knowledge was just asking for trouble.

The gossip was doubly bewildering to Ignis Scientia considering he hadn’t bedded a lover for the first time until considerably recently—much to the teasing of his friends. Even Prompto, the bumbling idiot around women that he was, had managed to cajole a bored classmate into sleeping with him well before Ignis had ever shared himself privately with another. But he hadn’t been in the same kind of hurry to exercise his sexual prowess like the others; establishing one’s virility was all relative, and physical intimacy was no more or less a validation of masculinity than slitting an enemy’s throat.

But he  _had_  eventually taken part in a man’s customary right of passage, and the rumors about him had begun to spread within the Citadel like wildfire not long after. He wonders if his proclivity for indulging in an evening drink at the same bar several of the royal Kingsglaive frequented has piqued the curiosity of more inquisitive observers—the seedy underbelly of Crown City was fertile breeding grounds for palace whispers, and the women who visited the establishment on the regular were indeed quite beautiful—but that’s not precisely why he comes here.

It’s actually because of the bartender; specifically, the delectable cocktail he creates using aged Altissian scotch with a twist of Duscaen orange rind is what prompts the strategist’s returning patronage. Ebony is inarguably his preferred beverage of choice, but there’s nothing quite like a stiff drink after spending an entire afternoon walloping on his undisciplined pupils to ease the tension in his shoulders. If he didn’t have to get up so early every morning to prepare his royal charge for the day ahead, Ignis might not have any reason to leave the bar at all.

It also helps that the man behind the counter is easy on the eyes; maybe it’s because his clipped accent draws attention to his strong jawline when he elongates his syllables, or perhaps it’s simply because the strategist appreciates someone who isn’t afraid of donning a pair of classic suspenders. The bartender often pairs them with a crisp button-down shirt and necktie—both in varying shades of black, per the royal dress code—and he hasn’t been absent once since Ignis took up his admittedly fallible habit.

Which is why he’s somewhat perplexed to find that the mixologist is not at his usual post when he strolls into the tavern that night. The strategist is reticent to inquire into the man’s whereabouts for fear of perpetuating even more rumors about himself—behind the safety of Insomnia’s walls, bored Kingsglaive seemingly have little better to do than to hypothesize about the relationship status of a lowly Crownsguard—so he spends several minutes casually wandering the floor’s perimeter in search of the only company he cares to entertain at this particular establishment.

It’s only after he’s poked his nose into every corner and booth—keenly aware of the probing stares the Kingsglaive have trained on him—that he steps back outside and into the brisk night air. The smell of smoking tobacco wafts through his nostrils, and he follows the odor around the corner of the building until he finds its source: A gentleman is leaning against a brick wall in the alleyway behind the bar, nursing a cigarette and dressed in a crisp button-down shirt, necktie, and suspenders.

“For a moment, I thought I was going to have to construct my own concoction this evening,” Ignis says as he stops beside the man.

“Sorry,” the bartender chuckles. “Just taking a short break. Standing on my feet for hours on end gets the better of me sometimes.”

The strategist runs a hand along one of his own sore biceps. “I can relate. If I didn’t have your alcoholic curatives to look forward to, I fear I would have to resort to acquainting myself with Crown City University’s local fraternity chapter. Either that, or I’d have to learn how to pour myself a proper glass of scotch.”

The man snorts softly. “I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing what some of my patrons on the other side of the bar might come up with.”

“I have some skill in backward-engineering recipes,” Ignis concedes, “but there’s an art to zesting an orange I haven’t quite mastered yet.”

The bartender takes a drag off his cigarette and shakes his head. “Perhaps, but nothing someone of your talents with a knife couldn’t acquire. At least, if the grumblings of the bruised Kingsglave inside are to be believed.”

Ignis’ lips twist into a wry grin; he spends most of his time at the Citadel tutoring the palace’s lower security detail in the study of hand-to-hand combat—that is, when he’s not occupied with his duties to the crown prince—but is remiss to pass up any opportunity to humble Regis’ more arrogant bodyguards whenever they offer to cross daggers with him. “Come now—surely Nyx isn’t still bitter about the finger I broke?”

“Only slightly,” the bartender demurs, and withdraws a small case from his trouser pocket. “Cigarette?”

The strategist hesitates briefly, then plucks one from the outstretched box. “Sure.”

The bartender then ignites a lighter in his direction, and Ignis leans over to kindle his smoke. His face is in close enough proximity to the man that he can smell the subtle fragrance of his cologne; his cheeks warm slightly when the aroma activates a deeper, more primal area of his brain, and he joins his impromptu counterpart against the wall as the chemicals in the tobacco work their magic through his tight muscles.

“At the risk of sounding like I’m prying,” he says through a hazy exhale, “what is a fit young gentleman like yourself doing working as a bartender in Insomnia? The Citadel’s recruitment offices would positively wring their hands in delight if they saw you walk through their front doors.”

He’s not wrong about the  _fit_  part; the strategist surmises only a blind person could miss the sharp definition of the bartender’s torso beneath his tailored shirt. But the man plays coy, and brushes his observation aside with a curious flick of his wrist. “I’m not as young as I look,” he says.

“Oh? How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Thirty-two,” he replies. “And if you don’t mind my asking, how old are  _you?_ ”

It’s not often the strategist feels encumbered by the age gap between him and his elders, but the bartender’s soulful eyes seemingly penetrate his deepest insecurities. “Nineteen going on forty, according to my friends,” he quips.

“Scarcely more than a child. I bet you haven’t even seen the world yet, have you?”

Ignis busies himself with his cigarette, if only to avert the older man’s probing gaze. “Not precisely, no.”

The man then grows quiet; after a while, he takes a final drag off his smoke and crushes the discarded butt beneath his heel. “To answer your question, I’m not as fit as I look, either. I was living in Tenebrae when the Imperial assault there occurred.”

The strategist ruminates over the meaning behind his mention for a long moment, until the pieces click into place. “Were you injured?”

The bartender kicks his right foot against the brick wall, and Ignis can hear the faint  _clink_  of metal. “Lost my leg below the knee in a daemon attack.”

An inkling of guilt trickles through Ignis’ gut, and he frowns. “My apologies.”

“None the worse for wear,” the man says jovially, “but it does limit my professional options a tad.”

“You probably presume I’m an naïve anklebiter who is unaware of the true dangers of Eos prowling just beyond the city’s walls.” The strategist gnaws on his lip as he tosses aside his own cigarette butt. “I suppose that would not be an entirely inaccurate observation.”

“Not at all.” The bartender resumes his place against the wall, only now he’s a step closer to Ignis, near enough that he can sense the warmth emanating from under the man’s tunic. “Although I do wonder sometimes why you show up to this place all alone night after night, when the palace rumors that have reached my ears suggest you are anything but lonely.”

“I’m going to have to do something about those pesky palace rumors,” Ignis mutters irritably. “It’s a small wonder the entire constituency of Insomnia doesn’t think I keep intimate company with a pack of Sabertusks by now.”

“What intimate company do you keep, then?”

His gaze suddenly darts over to the bartender. “Come again?”

The man has one eyebrow cocked in his direction, the faintest hint of a grin touching his lips. “Was that impolite of me to ask?”

“No, it’s just—” In an uncharacteristic loss of composure, the strategist finds himself stumbling over his words. “I should think you would hardly find the interests of a mere Crownsguard entertaining, when there are undoubtably more important individuals that vie for your attention.”

“The Kingsglaive only talk to me because they think I’m easy to impress. Libertus Ostium is evidently harboring a behemoth-sized phallus beneath his royal raiments, if one were to believe even a fraction of his boasting.”

Ignis can’t quite stifle a laugh. “Libertus walks around like a nudist in the Citadel’s locker rooms, so I know it’s not  _that_  big.”

“I know it’s not, either.”

The way the bartender tosses him an mischievous wink gives the strategist pause. “…right.”

“So do the beasts of greater Lucis truly tickle your fancy?” the man continues. “Or is there more to your unassuming character than meets the eye?”

Ignis glances cautiously over at him, not entirely confident in his own ability to read between the lines. “I find an exceptional intellect to be most intriguing, above all else.”

“That’s not exactly the narrowest of requisites.”

The strategist views his own sexuality in the same manner as the approach to warfare; tried and tested methods are often the most applicable policy, but are wholly conditional depending on the circumstances. “I suppose that hinges upon your definition of narrow.”

“So then, whereabouts would you assess my intellect?”

The lines are becoming more distinct now, and Ignis offers him a small smile. “I think anyone who has overcome the tremendous amount of adversity you have is certainly worth getting to know better.”

The man purses his lips in thought, and for the briefest of instants Ignis ponders what it might be like to feel the bartender’s warm breath on his neck. Then his companion abruptly pushes himself away from the wall and moves to exit the alleyway. “If you care to learn more about my exceptional intellect,” he calls out over his shoulder, “I live in the biggest apartment complex on Twelfth Street. I’m off at midnight.”

 


	2. The Ties That Bind

_Biggest apartment complex on Twelfth Street_  isn’t the most explicit of directions, Ignis surmises, considering 12th Street ran the entire length of Crown City. But the strategist has the advantage of logic on his side, and there are a few hints he can infer from what little he knows about the bartender.

The man has a prosthetic leg, which meant that the radius of walking distance he was limited to was no more than ten or so blocks from the bar. It was conceivable he might’ve driven to his place of employment, but as the metropolitan area where the tavern was located offered very little street parking, it seemed rather unlikely. Within those constraints, that left two possible structures for consideration; one was a story taller that the other, but the shorter one spanned a greater width along its facade.

So Ignis situates himself equidistant from the two apartment buildings, and waits silently beneath a flickering street lamp in the hopes of picking up on another, more audible clue. On weeknights like this, the roads and alleyways were quiet enough to hear the sound of footfalls on the sidewalk, and indeed the strategist is rewarded by the soft grinding of a mechanical joint not long after the top of the hour.

“It appears my enigmatic instructions gave you far less trouble than I had anticipated,” the bartender says, as he steps out of the shadows and into the brassy light. “I suppose they don’t call you The Strategist without due cause.”

“If your intention was to be purposefully vague,” Ignis counters, “I wonder why you bothered inviting me to your residence in the first place.”

“One can never be too careful, what with the eyes of the crown peering through every nook and cranny of this city.” The man stops beside him and looks him up and down once. “Besides, there’s something to be said about gauging a person’s interest with discretion.”

Ignis raises a dubious eyebrow. “So you were testing me?”

The man’s gaze settles in on his own. “Just curious to see how far your youthful inquisitiveness would lead you.”

Admittedly, the women who had attempted to play bashful games with him in the past had held the strategist’s attention scarcely beyond a single heartbeat. But the bartender was neither bashful nor a woman, and Ignis can’t help but be more than a little intrigued. “Truth be told, I was hoping it would lead me to that drink I never got this evening.”

His pulse elevates slightly when bartender flashes him a wide grin before heading off in the direction of the taller of the two structures. “I’ll have to charge you a premium for dipping into my own inventory. Good Altissian scotch is hard to come by these days.”

The strategist trails a few paces behind him, the subtle sound of creaking metal echoing in the bartender’s wake. “Unless you have an automated teller machine squirreled away somewhere inside your apartment, you’ll have to settle for a more informal method of compensation.”

“I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

Ignis takes note of his companion’s thinly veiled insinuation as he follows him down a footpath terminating in a corner unit at the end of the complex. The man then withdraws a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks an ornate front door; serving drinks to thirsty palace guards is clearly a prosperous business venture, the strategist surmises, if he’s able to afford such posh accommodations in a part of Crown City as upper-class as this. The bartender plays the consummate gentleman, holding the door open for Ignis patiently until he is fully inside the dwelling.

The strategist focuses his attention on the furnishings of the room when the bartender taps a light switch on the wall; there’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary beyond the usual bachelor décor—high ceilings, leather furniture, an array of liquor bottles displayed behind a glass cabinet in the kitchen—but a curious oil painting on the wall catches his eye.

“The Birth of Eos,” Ignis comments, sifting through the assortment of useless information he keeps filed away in his mind at all times. “It’s not often you see classical Tenebraen art this far from where it originated. You mentioned you were present during the Imperial invasion—are you from there originally?”

The bartender is already in the kitchen, retrieving a couple of glass tumblers from an overhead shelf. “I am. Most of my family relocated to Crown City after the assault, but I still have a few cousins living there. I assume you’ve never been to Tenebrae?”

“I have not,” Ignis says, “but Noctis spent some months there as a child, and regaled its beauty to me many times.”

“It truly is a lovely place, when it’s not crawling with Magitek infantry.” The man rummages through the refrigerator for a moment before withdrawing an orange from the crisper and setting it on the kitchen counter. “I seem to recall a royal retinue gracing the country with their presence for a time. The prince was recuperating from a daemon attack, am I correct?”

“Indeed.”

“Nasty beasts—the one interaction I had with them was once too many for my liking.” He then unsheathes a paring knife and deftly peels off a strip of rind from the orange. “May I ask how long you’ve been in service to the crown?”

“As long as I can remember,” Ignis murmurs, his attention still wrapped up in the details of the Astral depicted in the image. “I was recruited as somewhat of plaything for Noct when I was six years old.”

“If you’d had the choice, would you have done things differently? Explored other avenues?”

“I’ve… never really given it much thought, to be honest.” He finally tears his eyes away from the painting just in time to see the bartender uncorking a bottle of scotch and pouring a splash over both tumblers. “The circumstances I found myself in as a child seemingly dictated my lot in life.”

“I suppose there are far less honorable professions than that of a royal Crownsguard.” The man drops a twist of orange rind into each glass, then strolls over to where Ignis is standing before offering him one of the drinks. “Like bartending, for instance.”

“Bartending is absolutely an honorable profession. Just imagine how dreary the world would be without the simple joy of drinking oneself to oblivion.” The strategist smiles at his counterpart as he raises his tumbler to his lips. “What do I owe you?”

The bartender narrows his eyes. “How about an answer to a personal inquiry?”

“All right.”

“Are you virtuous?”

Ignis nearly chokes on his scotch. “Am I what?”

“Perhaps ‘unsullied’ is the word I was looking for.”

He then frowns, not entirely sure where the bartender’s line of questioning is headed. “Certainly not. I wouldn’t be having to field salacious whispers about myself if I were.”

The bartender takes a long sip of his drink before setting his glass down on a nearby end table. “I only ask because I never quite know what gossip to believe. Perhaps if the one set of rumors were untrue, the other rumors I’ve heard might be false as well.”

The strategist’s brow furrows. “What other rumors?” 

“That you’ve engaged exclusively with women.”

“That… is not false, no.”

The bartender takes a step closer to Ignis, near enough that he can smell the scotch on the man’s breath. “Does the notion of entertaining the company of men trouble to you?”

The strategist’s eyes fall on the bartender’s necktie, and he briefly calculates the amount of time it would take to fashion it into a makeshift manacle. “I should think not. One willing body is as warm as another.”

“But you can’t speak from experience?”

“I cannot.”

The bartender tilts his head thoughtfully to one side. “How curious.”

Ignis’ grip tightens around his cold beverage, the hackles on his neck tingling in mild irritation. “I’m not intimidated, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Are you sure about that?”

For a long moment, the two men stare each other down in silence; then the bartender casually reaches over and plucks the tumbler from Ignis’ hand before closing the distance between them. The strategist’s breath catches in his throat when the man runs his fingers lightly across his bare cheek, and his spectacled eyes fall shut when their lips finally meet.

There was something to be said about all the things that made women so delightfully feminine—small statures, dainty fingers, rosy lips that teased Ignis in all the right places. But the raw energy the strategist could taste on the tip of the bartender’s tongue was unlike anything he’d experienced before; the smell of the man’s cologne mingling with the oaky flavor of aged Altissian scotch muddles his senses and sends electrical impulses firing from his brain down to his feet with lightning speed.

Ignis clutches at the bartender’s necktie absentmindedly, if only to stop his knees from giving out from under him entirely. He has nothing to fear, however, because his companion’s hands are already circling around his waist, his strong fingers gripping the small of his back. He presses his chest up against the man’s torso, and for all the effort the nineteen-year-old strategist has made at crafting a mature and collected demeanor, he suddenly finds himself succumbing to the childish desire of wanting to be held.

But the bartender stifles his juvenile instinct by breaking their kiss, stepping backward a pace before Ignis can drag him to the nearest flat surface and strip him of his clothes entirely. “If this is your first attempt at wielding a sword,” he says as he reaches for Ignis’ glass, “you might want to finish this first.”

“My expertise admittedly lies with the lance, but there are some notable similarities.” The strategist grudgingly accepts the drink from the bartender’s hand and knocks it back in one swig. “How different could it be?”

His counterpart is already making his way toward a room at the end of a hallway, and Ignis abandons his empty tumbler before trailing him through the open door. A large bed is situated in the center of the space, and the bartender loosens his necktie as he lowers himself onto the edge of it. “I presume if you haven’t entangled yourself with a man before, you might have some inquiries as to the delegation of certain tasks.”

The strategist hesitates as he watches him discard his tie on a nearby pillow. “I suppose my expectations do align a bit more toward the traditional.”

The bartender then unbuttons the top two closures of his shirt, and Ignis catches a glimpse of his smooth collarbone. “I’ll tell you what,” the man says. “I have trouble being on my knees for too long a time. If you can spare me the effort of overexerting my right leg, I’ll let you play whatever role you like to your heart’s content.”

“An agreeable strategy,” Ignis replies, and slowly makes his way toward the bedside.

The bartender’s skin is as soft as he imagined it would be when the strategist finally traces his fingers along the lines of his chest. His hands then move to tug on the elastic of his suspenders, and a flutter of anticipation stirs in his belly when he slips them down past the man’s firm shoulders. His companion’s eyes never leave his own, and he waits unflinching while Ignis tackles the rest of his shirt buttons.

“I must admit,” the bartender says in a low voice, “I was expecting a bit more jittering from a man who’s only practice is with the fairer sex. Do they temper your nerves in steel at the Citadel?”

The strategist snorts softly as he liberates his partner from his tunic. “Not quite. The drink helped.”

He then covers the bartender’s mouth with his own before he can respond with a clever retort, dropping his hands to the man’s waist to release his belt buckle. At the back of his mind, Ignis knows this is little more than a momentary tryst, a mutual understanding between two men simply in need of alleviating a bit of life’s pressures; still, the bartender is tender in his touch, caressing the strategist’s jawline with gentle fingers and nipping softly at his lower lip.

Ignis then drops to his knees and eases the bartender out of his trousers; he isn’t quite sure what he was expecting his own reaction to be, but the sight of the man’s right leg causes his heart to seize up in his chest. Aluminum plates and copper wiring shaped into a respectable facsimile of calf muscles and an ankle joint encases everything below the knee, and Ignis runs his hand along the bartender’s thigh before stopping just above the artificial limb.

“You don’t have to worry about dancing around my feelings,” the man says quietly. “I can hardly even remember how it happened nowadays.”

Ignis had seen the visible scars carved into those in service to the crown who had been involved in action on the Imperial front; he’d even seen the emotional impact the terrors of the night had had on his closest friend. But he had never borne witness to the horrors of bloodshed in such close quarters before, and suddenly it felt as if the war against the Empire was right outside his doorstep.

The strategist glides tentative fingers down the man’s right leg, noting the transition between the warmth of his skin and the coolness of the polished metal. “Does it hurt?”

The bartender offers him a cheeky grin. “Only when I kick someone.”

The tension in his chest ebbs, and Ignis brushes a cheek against the inside of the man’s thigh. “Do warn me if you happen to be ticklish, then. In my experience, tooth enamel is rather weak against metal.”

He can feel the bartender’s hands sift through his hair when he moves to relieve him from his briefs; the strategist was scarcely bashful in the presence of bare flesh, but his cheeks unconsciously redden when he lays eyes on his partner’s burgeoning erection that matches the pressure in his own trousers. The dull ache of intoxication is causing his head to swim, although whether it was from the alcohol he consumed earlier, or simply a side effect of his increasingly demanding libido, Ignis isn’t quite sure.

And while he may have had little experience with manipulating a sword, the strategist knows what he likes whenever he happens to be on the receiving end of a lover’s generosity; his hands move instinctively to grip at the base of the bartender’s strengthening rigidity, his mouth enveloping him fully, his tongue pressing hard against the sensitive part just below the head. His partner’s fingers tighten around his temples once before drifting down the back of his neck; he is quiet in his reaction to Ignis’ gentle probing, but the fingernails the strategist can feel digging through the fabric of his shirt speak volumes.

Ignis takes this as a positive sign, and settles in more comfortably between the bartender’s legs. He then allows one of his hands to circle around the man’s artificial calf—he isn’t sure whether his partner has any feeling below his right knee, but the smooth metal is enjoyable to the touch nonetheless—and supplements his oral machinations with the other. The bartender’s own hands eventually let go of their vice grip over his shoulders and drift down the front of his chest, and Ignis can feel the buttons of his shirt loosen with each passing stroke of his tongue.

He pauses only briefly to give the bartender free rein to discard his shirt on the floor, glancing up as the man leans down to steal a kiss. Then Ignis returns his attention to the task at hand, closing his eyes against the sensation of warm flesh thrusting hard against the back of his throat. The scent of cologne and scotch and male pheromones that swirl in the air around his nostrils serves only to urge the strategist onward, and he reaches down to loosen the zipper of his trousers to relieve himself of the pressure plaguing his own groin.

The bartender remains silent, but Ignis can sense the man’s breath shortening in his lungs, can feel the pulsing of blood locked tightly inside the tissue of his shaft. And he can hear the sound of his mechanical ankle flexing and clenching in time with Ignis’ movements, until his tremors reach all the way to his hands and he tilts the strategist’s chin up with trembling fingers.

“Perhaps it would be best if we moved on to other things,” he says hoarsely. “I wouldn’t want to dirty up your spectacles.”

The strategist levels him with a malevolent grin, and draws himself up to his full height. The bartender’s hands drift to the waistband of his trousers, tracing his fingertips lightly over Ignis’ arousal before tugging on the pockets of his pants and dropping them to the floor. The strategist rakes his gaze over his partner’s taut abdomen when he pushes himself onto the bed and reaches for a drawer in the nightstand; after a moment, the man withdraws a small bottle and tosses it in Ignis’ direction.

“For your own pleasure,” he offers. “If you need more, there’s plenty where that came from.”

Ignis eyes the vial of lubricant in his hand; if a full bottle wasn’t enough to prime the evening’s activities, the strategist had grossly underestimated the proportions of his own equipment. But before he can even remove his smallclothes, the bartender rolls over onto his chest and props himself on his elbows.

Ignis finally abandons his briefs on the floor and eases himself onto the bed beside his lover. “If you don’t mind,” he says, as he gestures for the bartender to assume a comfortable position on his back, “I generally like to see my partners’ faces in the heat of the moment.”

“Missionary?  _Really?_ ” The man lets out a laugh. “I should think you were an old maid, with that sort of taste.”

The strategist tucks the bottle of lubricant beneath his arm and plucks the long-forgotten tie up off the pillow. “There are ways of reinventing the familiar.”

The man’s eyes widen as Ignis gathers his wrists above his head. “If you were hoping to avoid a metal foot to the teeth, this might not be the best course of action.”

The strategist loops the tie around the back of the headboard and secures the bartender’s hands. “A calculated risk.”

When he is satisfied with the strength of his knot, Ignis rocks back on his knees and rids himself of his last remaining accoutrement: his glasses. There was something about the absence of the familiar weight across the bridge of his nose that made him feel even more naked and vulnerable than being nude in front of a lover; perhaps it was the comments he inevitably received from his paramours on how different he looked without them that triggered his insecurities about his own image.

But the bartender mercifully makes no wry quips about his youthful features, and instead watches with curiosity as Ignis uncaps the vial of lubricant; cold serum drips down into his palm, and gooseflesh ripples through his skin when he touches the viscous liquid to his screaming erection. He then pours a generous amount over his partner’s loins, spreading the fluid across the man’s shivering flesh with warm hands, until he stops to press a finger inside the most sensitive and intimate part of his lover’s body.

Only then does the bartender finally make a sound; Ignis introduces a second finger, and is rewarded not with a kick to the jaw, but a louder, more audible gasp from the man. The exploration of discovery was wholly universal, the strategist surmises, and probing a man’s canal was not all that different than teasing the sex of a woman. He leans over and nuzzles his nose against his partner’s neck, his hand still buried between his thighs, and the bartender tilts his face toward the strategist’s in a furious attempt to meet his lips.

Ignis indulges in his desire, but only briefly, because it isn’t long before the man’s hips are quivering and his insistence is making itself known. The strategist withdraws his hand and positions himself above the bartender, then reaches down for the base of his own shaft and nudges the head against the entrance of his lover’s body; the lubrication has its intended effect, and the strategist’s elbows nearly give out from under him when he presses his heat inside his partner.

It was an altogether different sensation than what Ignis had experienced in the past; the taut walls of a man were more rigid, the muscles tightening against his ardor more acute, than the soft folds of a woman. He ceases all movement for an instant to allow for the sudden dizziness in his head to pass, and moves to rest his cheek against the bartender’s chiseled torso until his mind is clear enough to actively quell the throbbing in his loins.

When he is certain his body won’t betray him and spill his seed unceremoniously within five seconds of penetrating him, Ignis finally lifts his head to cover the bartender’s parted mouth with his own. His kiss is gentle at first, then more urgent as buries himself fully inside his partner; the man arches his ribcage and wraps his ankles around the back of the strategist’s knees—his left leg warm, his right cool to the touch—until their two bodies are nearly as one and his partner’s hard-as-stone manhood is trapped between both their abdomens.

Ignis grips at the sheets on either side of the bartender’s head when he begins to move, if only to protect the man from his fingernails that are desperate to mark their territory. But he can’t safeguard his partner from his teeth, and indeed the strategist is unable to resist the urge to leave a trail of gentle love bites down the man’s collarbone. His lover’s arms strain against the shackles of the necktie, so Ignis teases his tongue along the inside of the man’s biceps in an effort to distract him from the knot fettering his wrists.

The strategist eventually settles his hips into a comfortable rhythm, and studies the planes of his lover’s face as he seeks out visual and audible clues that might reveal to him the thoughts turning behind the bartender’s mind. He can see his jaw clench tightly when Ignis meets the edge of his resistance, can hear the carnal growl coming from deep within his throat; he can also feel the warm droplets pooling onto his partner’s abdomen, a telltale sign of the man’s ardor inching ever closer to its breaking point.

So Ignis doubles his efforts, and aims for the same firm spot he can feel with each passing drive of his hips. The bartender’s thighs are gripped tightly around his waist, his moans growing louder in his ears, his arms fighting the ties that bind them. Ignis bites down hard on the inside of his cheek in a rapidly failing attempt at mitigating his own rising fervor; it doesn’t help that lubricant smothering both of their flesh makes the strategist’s thrusts glide with the ease and pleasure of a well-oiled machine.

The bartender’s eyes suddenly flash with a fire that catches Ignis off guard. “Untie me,” he whispers.

The strategist hesitates for a moment, then leans down to touch his lips lightly to his partner’s cheek. “It won’t be much longer, I promise.”

The man levels him with a steely gaze. “Do it before I break this headboard, damn it.”

It doesn’t take a strategist to pick up on the deadly seriousness of the bartender’s voice; he immediately moves to loosen the knot, and the man’s hands are on his buttocks the instant they are freed. His mouth seeks out Ignis’ with a hunger of a rabid Voretooth, and he grinds his hips agonizingly against the strategist’s aching loins; even Ignis, the silent lover he often was, cannot entirely contain the gasp that escapes his lungs, and he closes his eyes when his partner’s writhing intensifies beneath him.

This isn’t precisely how the strategist had planned things to occur; drawing out sensual pleasure was a marathon, not a race, and he’d hoped to prolong his partner’s ecstasy at least a little longer than it had taken him to down his cocktail. But the bartender’s fingers clawing urgently at his lower back is doing nothing to impede the familiar pressure constricting the base of his shaft, and his body has wrenched his own free will away from him in favor of progressing autonomously through his thrusts.

It’s his partner’s climax that ultimately tips him over the edge, and the strategist has but a heartbeat to register the sensation of warm, milky fluid squeezing through the tight space between their bellies. Then his own orgasm is tearing through him, so he yields himself over to the inevitable; he grits his teeth as his hips jerk in time with the pulse of his contractions. When the final wave of his climax has exhausted itself, he summons the last of his self discipline and gingerly lowers himself to the bartender’s chest rather than collapsing under the weight of his own mass entirely.

The older man rakes his hands gently through Ignis’ scalp and they lay in silence, their hearts beating nearly as one. The strategist resists the urge to laugh aloud at the ludicrous notion that there was something inherently immoral or emasculating about bedding a gentleman; sword or sheath, one willing body  _was_  truly as warm as another. After a moment, Ignis pushes himself off his partner and reaches for his spectacles resting on the nightstand.

The bartender peers over at him as he settles his glasses across the bridge of his nose. Admittedly, this was the part of the evening that Ignis was always the most tentative of; his loyalty is first and foremost to the crown, and he recognizes the damage he risks to his credibility with each surreptitious dalliance he engages himself in. It’s why he hides behind a cold and aloof demeanor whenever he returns his lenses to his face; feelings of longing and affection would only get in the way of a man who has sworn his allegiance to a life of royal service.

Mercifully, the bartender makes no indication of a desire for pillow talk; he simply retrieves a hand towel stored in a drawer in the nightstand and wipes the fluid from his belly in silence. Ignis’ heart aches inside his chest at the painful austerity of their resolution, but it’s the price he must pay as a Crownsguard, a fleeting moment of euphoria in an otherwise restrained existence.

The bartender then offers the towel in the direction of the strategist. “Care for a cup of coffee?”

He takes the rag and cleans up the product of his own desire between his thighs. “If you happen to have Ebony, I’d be in your debt.”

The man tosses his legs—mechanical or otherwise—over the side of the bed and draws himself upright. “I’d be an embarrassment to my vocation if I brewed anything less than the best.”

Ignis watches as the man quickly throws on his briefs and trousers before exiting the bedroom. He then glances around in search of his own wardrobe—how his shirt ended up all the way in the threshold of the door, he can’t quite remember—and dresses in silence, an odd sense of dismay washing over him. In hindsight, bedding the one person in all of Insomnia who knew just how to pour a proper glass of scotch perhaps went against his better judgment.

The alluring aroma of freshly-brewed coffee is already swirling in the air when the strategist finally moves into the living room. The bartender is leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his bare chest, his flat abdomen on full display for Ignis’ viewing pleasure. “Is everything all right?” the man asks. “You seem to be mired in a cloud of melancholy, all of a sudden.”

Ignis adjusts his spectacles out of nervous habit. “I was just thinking it might be best if I gave up my drinking habit for a while.”

The bartender frowns. “Are you worried about what I’ll say? I’ll have you know that no one keeps secrets in Crown City better than I do.”

“I’ve heard that before,” the strategist mutters, “but loose lips appear to follow me wherever I go.”

The man then retrieves two mugs from a cabinet, topping them both off with Ebony before moving to stop beside Ignis. “Libertus’ reputation seems to be no worse for wear, despite my best efforts,” he teases.

The strategist accepts the mug the bartender is holding out for him and grimaces. “Your discretion is appreciated.”

“If you choose to distance yourself from your fallibilities, I’ll try not to take it personally.” The bartender sips at his Ebony and touches a hand to the small of Ignis’ back. “But a little youthful capriciousness scarcely tarnished a man’s respectability. I should think your name might be famous across Lucis one day.”

“‘The Philanderer’ doesn’t exactly have the ring I was hoping for.”

“You have nothing to fear—‘The Strategist’ has already taken root in the minds of others. It may have reached the ears of even Tenebrae by now.” The bartender then leans over and presses a chaste kiss to Ignis’ cheek. “If you ever happen to make it there, do be on the lookout for the floating castles—they are truly a sight to behold.”


End file.
